Fire!
Intense fire flares within the Immortal Lord, settling and burning, burrowing deep in his core. Instincts tell him this is not a normal or mortal fire. Standing under a snow-cold waterfall flowing from the pool faucet, he hopes the icy chill will calm the raging flame. To his dismay, it does not. Clouds of steam swirl angrily when water contacts his fire-kissed skin, turning the room into a glorified steam spring. The Immortal Lord steps from underneath the cascade, knowing it's futile to continue. Smoke continues to billow from his frame as it instantly evaporates the moisture.
Up the steps he travels and out of the pool towards the left wall where the inscribed marques to the pool water control lay and presses his right hand against the plate controlling faucet. Focusing his Lous'rife he calls the rune Retha holding it tightly in his mind. The marque hovers in his third sight looking like the letter O. With his Will he pushes the marque to the plate and it flows down his arm in crimson sparks.
The water ceases.
The raging fire becomes increasingly uncomfortable and forever remaining internal, he knows it is sparked by Desolation's power and fueled by her blood.
Suddenly, the firestorm cools and the billows of smoke recede. The Immortal Lord knows Desolation has succumbed to slumber.
What in the twelve depths of O'finren has she done to me?
Never in his centuries of life had he felt so alive, energized, and indestructible. Desolation's Lous'rife courses along his skin, the very way her blood travels within his veins.
Bending at the waist, he reaches for the clothing he'd tossed aside. The cloth bursts into flame the moment it comes to contact with his skin and stupidly he stares at the burning shirt clutched in his hand. When the flame reaches his palm his arm lashes and flings the ball of fire into the tub. A sharp sizzle ensues accompanied by the scent of burnt bread wafts through the air.
"Okay, let's not do that again."
Using his third sight, he focuses on the power burning within his soul, his Lous'rife, and the Lous'rife he'd gained from Desolation. A black flame burns brightly beside his own, but as he studies it closely it is not black, it is violet, green and blue. The darker the colour the more influential the being, or so it is theorized.
There has been much evidence suggesting the darker the Lous'rife the more powerful the being is, but there are also cases where it is not so. His Lous'rife is crimson but he is much more powerful than any mortal.
The study of Lous'rife and their colour have been under observation for centuries but the magus are not any closer to proving right or wrong of the theory.
Ignoring the dark flame, the Immortal Lord focuses his own Lous'rife and shapes it into a sphere, gently pushing it towards Desolation's fire.
At first, the flame resists the sphere but with persistence and a force of Will, he manages to envelop Desolation's Lous'rife within his own.
His skin cools.
Once again, he bends at the waist, hand hovering tenuously over his trousers. He taps it quickly, testing whether the cloth will burst into flames.
After deeming it safe, he grabs the trousers, hastily dons them and makes his way back to his rooms.
Desolation lay in the same position he left her. Her heartbeat remained its steady tattoo. Her breathing concerned him, it is shallower than before. He stood staring for a few breaths trying to decide if he should intervene but after a few candle flickers her breath matched the beat of her heart.
The bond told him Desolation remained lost in slumber and not likely to wake for several candles. Plenty of time to be a bit naughty.
Leaning against the bedpost by Desolation's head, he takes a long moment to assess the first woman he'd ever successfully completed the bond.
He decided he'd have to promote the maids Myorla and Ceres who had taken the initiative in dressing Desolation.
Clothed in a long, sleeveless, scarlet dress, the top hugged her almost straight curves. Past the hip, the dress flared in voluminous folds. By genius make of the dress and trick of fabric, the garment looks quite modest but as Desolation lay in slumber, the dress falls open in clever slits revealing generous amounts of long, marqued skin.
A long slit falls open, starting at Desolation's ankle, traveling up the length of her thigh, and coming to a stop below her right hip.
The sight intoxicated him.
On their own accord, his eyes trace the long, lean, smooth curves of the leg, attempting to memorize the complicated marquings. He enjoys the way the intricate patterns emphasize her legs, the exquisite curve of her thigh where it joined the hip. He longed to run his fingertips along her skin, wanting to satisfy the question of whether her skin felt as soft as it looked.
Instead, he lamely clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides.
Letting his eyes wander over his wife's body, he notices the maids have taken the liberty of decorating her ankles, feet, wrists, hands, and fingers with an assortment of jewelry.
An array of bangles adorn each wrist, some are gold others sliver, while others contain thin pressed copper coins that chime merrily when her hands twitched.
Upon closer inspection, he notices the ring adorning her left, middle finger is attached to a thin silver chain, decorated with smaller, silver coins whose end attaches to a single, gold bracelet.
An unnamed emotion swells and a smile tugs at his lips. The Immortal Lord wishes Desolation would dress in the same manner forevermore. Yet at the same time, she would remain clothed in her horrible dresses. He wants her beauty for him and him alone.
Out of its own violation, his right hand gingerly grasps Desolation's hand within his own, relishing in the tintinnabulation. Fascination grasps his fingers, they are entranced with the contrast of cool metal and warm skin, and his eyes are mesmerized by the marques upon her skin and the secrets they contain.
He brings her right hand to his lips, memorizing the alternating skin and metal. Turning her wrist, he notices the blood. A long streak runs from the inside of her wrist to the crook of her elbow. The original wound. The remembrances of Desolation placing the Blood Knife upon her slender wrist offering her blood freely.
Dyu's did she offer her blood freely?
Desolation's lifeforce tastes like no other he'd drank before. She remained an unnameable spice.
His new body heat flares at the thought of Desolation, primal awakening with the urge to protect his Blood Pair at all costs.
Blood Pair. His mind whispers. It is a title non-existent until his mind spoke and the words fit like a missing puzzle piece that had eluded him for the majority of his life.
The Immortal Lord gently places Desolation's hand upon her stomach, then walks towards the water basin. He snatches a washcloth and dips it into the cool water and wrings the excess. He gently wipes the dried blood on her arm and works his way toward the wrist.
He finds it increasingly difficult to refrain from replacing the washcloth with his tongue. A major part of him rebelled at the thought of a drop of blood wasted; while the other remained quite amused by his actions and impulses. He ignores the impulse like a responsible adult.
Red and swollen, a large scab starts from her wound. Unlike himself, Desolations didn't heal with the intake of blood but like every other mortal like mortals, she is susceptible to infection. Blood slowly leaks from her wrist and no longer able to ignore his impulses, the Immortal Lord tosses the washcloth aside and places his mouth on the wound.
Flavor, sweet and undiluted like sunlit summer, and pumpkin bursts along his tongue. She's a spice remaining unnamed.
Once again he swipes his tongue along with the newly forming scab, it brakes, allowing blood to run freely. Desolation's life force pours into his mouth like a waterfall. Instinct rises with the desire to clamp his incisors on her wrist. He pulls away and Deslolation's blood runs like a slow river dripping upon the covers.
"By the blasted Five," he curses.
A century has passed since he's bitten another being, and he forgot how his saliva is a decoagulant. His tongue caused the newly forming scab to melt. The Immortal Lord knows what he has to do and places his forefinger in his mouth and bites hard.
Iron, copper, and the ting of lavender swell on his taste buds and quickly he smears his blood atop the gaping wound. The abrasion heals rapidly as though pushed forward through time. After a few breaths, the wound disappears as if it never existed, leaving a pale scar in its wake.
"Good girl," he whispers.
Taking advantage of Desolation's state of unconsciousness, the Immortal Lord lay beside her, face to face, and places his hand atop her partially covered head.
Slowly, fearing to wake her, he slides the headwrap away from her mien, the beads, and coins adorning the fringe cry softly. He enjoys watching the contours of her face revealed fingers at a time. Compared to the rest of her body, Desolation's face held minimal marquings.
His fingers trail through her hair, remembering the first night she'd come to the manor and how the frizziness is in contrast to her silk, sleek locks. The contrast once again baffles him, but he is beginning to understand that Desolation is the epitome of contrast.
The Immortal Lord feels not a trace of guilt when his fingers explore more than Desolation's hair, they wander gently down the side of her neck.
Propriety be damned, she is his wife after all.
"You're beautiful," he whispers.
"MMMM, maybe you should tell Desolation when she wakes," a voice startles the Immortal Lord and he breaks contact.
"What?" He glances at Desolation. The bond confirms she is asleep and he jumps in surprise breaking the contact.
He gingerly places two fingers on her skin and says, "I thought I heard you speak."
"You did."
He jumps again but this time doesn't break the contact.
"Destruction?"
"Aww, good boy. He thinks."
"Give me a clue, I am confused."
"I would if I felt like it, but I am almost as clueless as you."
"You said almost, so you know something."
"I do."
"Do what?"
"Come on, I am hearing your voice in my head for Dyu's sake!"
"You might want to keep your voice down or have you forgotten the last time Desolation woke up in your room? Think about it Lord Jerrath, you have our blood in your veins and you, I suppose, have completed the bond. Ever stop to think that hearing us in your head has to do with either?"
"I have drunk from many beings over the centuries, it has never been like this."
"Were you intending to marry and bed these beings?"
"No, not the married part. Bed, of course."
"I suspect this is different."
"Different? How so? I did nothing different when I take the blood of mortals."
"True. You did nothing different. But I am not mortal. Did you suffer permanent brain damage when I staked you in the head? I did my best to heal you but I am not a miracle worker.
Put your fingertips back on my neck, I like that."
"Do you honestly think I will do that after you insult me?"
"Yes."
The Immortal Lord sighs, "I suspect I will have to do as she says if I want answers."
"Damn straight, the sooner you get it lodged into your head the better it will be for both of us."
"Dyu's be damaged, you aren't in my head."
"I was wondering when you'd figure it out, or if you would continue talking out loud. For a being claiming to be centuries old. I'd have thought you'd be a bit wiser. Think about it Lord Jerrath, if I can speak to your mind, what makes you think you cannot do the same?"
"I've never done it before," he snaps.
"Aww, cute, cute. Snappy. Move your hand down my neck and to the left."
"Why?"
"Because I want you to."
"That's not a reason."
"I want you to and that's final."
"Fine, Fine you pushy woman," and he lets his fingers slide down from the curve of her jaw to her neck.
"I have to because Desolation isn't and whatever Desolation is not, I am. Relish in the feeling while you can Lord Jerrath, difference takes time.
You still do not understand what you did differently?"
"I do not."
"You never fed those beings your blood."
"You never fed me."
"Yes, you did. Where do you think the blood on my tongue comes from and I can taste you on my buds."
The Immortal Lord shivers the way she speaks those words. The intonation is much more intimate than the action. He takes a brief moment and flicks his gaze towards Deolation's mouth, she right; a thin line of blood spills from the left corner of her lip and dribbles towards her center chin.
Memories flash before her eyes, him reaching for the Blood Knife then slashing the knife across her wrist and placing the wound in his mouth.
"So it seems. I have and did. "
"We have solved this little mystery. I suggest you put me back in my room. Desolation will wake with the next candle, best not to be around when she rises."
"Why don't you walk her body yourself?"
"I have no control over her physical self."
"It seems like you do."
"I don't, I am sorry, but I don't. I mainly make it seem that I do. Fake it to make it."
"I get it, I get it," the Immortal Lord says and he sits up gathering Desolation in his arms, cradled like a child.
He strides through the rooms which belong to Desolation, and it's dark, he can see perfectly in the darkness. He lays Desolation gently upon the mattress and pulls the covers.
Brushing back her hair he mentally says, " Goodnight Desolation."
"Goodnight Lord Jerrath. No kiss?"
Lord Jerrath says nothing until his feet reach the door, "I'll kiss you when Desolation says the words herself."
Then he quietly shuts the door behind him. There have been plenty of surprises and there are more waiting on the morrow.
Best not to shock his system and the fiery passion of Destruction will not be too far behind. Desolation's power burned and he would never be able to rest until Desolation, Destruction, and he can talk.